


let's chance it

by savemeaplate



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Bottom Lance (Voltron), Butt Plugs, Dirty Talk, Dry-Humping, Fluff, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Humor, Just a dash of angst, Lance gets wrecked, Lance has a blue rose tattoo, Lance is a communications advisor, Lots of references as always lmao, M/M, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Rimming, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Ryan is an event planner, Ryan is smitten, Ryan's a romantic, Smut, Sucking dick behind Kroger's lmao, Top Ryan Kinkade, Trinidadian Ryan, curly haired lance, everybody is in their mid twenties or older, lance has a tongue piercing, mentions of bottom Ryan, they meet at a bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:47:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25021147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savemeaplate/pseuds/savemeaplate
Summary: Ryan's just gotten his new job at Buena Vista, an event-planning company that he's more than happy to work for. He meets Lance, a charming communications director who is as terrifyingly good at advertising conventions as he is at sucking dick.Ryan has a great damn time.
Relationships: Ryan Kinkade/Lance
Comments: 21
Kudos: 136





	let's chance it

**Author's Note:**

> aaaaaahhhh i love this ship so much. Kinkance shippers come get y'all juice
> 
> come scream with me on [twitter!](https://twitter.com/guardameunplato)

Ryan misses rum.

He remembers teenage summers when he’d go visit his cousins in Trinidad instead of staying in the States to be shuffled off to another Science Camp (how can you even trust a bunch of hormonal, self-centered sixteen year olds to build a robot without somebody getting their glasses snapped for disrespect or finding kids groping each other in the supply closet of the main hall anyway?). 

He remembers goofing around with his cousins in his aunt’s two-story in Chaguanas while she embezzled money at the petroleum refining plant she ran two towns over (well, to be fair they learned about the white collar crime _years_ later). He remembers mixing butterfly rum, passionfruit juice powder, and fruit punch into a cocktail that burned like an electric shock from an open socket going down, but tasted _so fucking good_ that you didn’t even really mind it much.

And Ryan has _yet_ to find an apt substitute in the states for that kind of real rum. None of that fake shit that they serve at bars and restaurants up here. Tastes like it’s been cut through with printer ink so cheap you’d _actually_ buy more ink to replace it, instead of just buying a whole other printer.

So when Shiro, Adam and Keith invite him out for drinks after work, he asks for a glass of water to avoid the disappointment. 

The job at _Buena Vista Events_ is new. Ryan actually majored in Chemistry in undergrad—will always like it really—but it got super repetitive. He loved managing reactions and loved how conclusive it all was, but most of the time it would bore him to pieces. 

He did a lot of graphic design on the side, made shit for school clubs and events. Even managed to get paid for it. That’s how he met Keith, who genuinely enjoyed his art major. But after that, Ryan, because he was still being an unbelievable dickhead, went to freaking grad school for chem fully knowing that he didn’t like it anywhere _near_ enough to justify studying it for four more years. _Definitely_ not worth ramming himself headfirst into a mountain of debt. Ryan’s sure plenty of his former students probably still remember how their TA always kind of looked like he was two seconds away from taking an erlenmeyer flask to his own head.

But, luck of all lucks, he managed to reconnect with Keith at a chem conference Keith had done the floor designs for. Keith put him on to _Buena Vista_ , where his brother and his brother’s husband worked too (this place really liked to keep it in the family, huh). Ryan interviewed, scraped the bucket-bottom of his personality for some charm, and managed to get the job. He’s about a month in, really likes how personable their boss Veronica is after years of having the professors he worked with barely even grunt to acknowledge his presence most days. And he can already tell that _this_ … this is what he’s supposed to be doing. It took eight goddamn years of chem for him to figure it out, but he’s glad he did.

“Oh fuck off Adam. I don’t care how long it gets, I’m _not_ letting you braid my hair.”

“Keith, come ooon! Don’t you want to look like a much angrier Rapunzel? What was the point of asking you for Shiro’s hand in marriage if I can’t even play with your hair?”

Shiro scoffs. “Uhhh because you love me and cherish me?” 

“You never asked me for Shiro’s hand in marriage!”

“Fine!... Keith, can I marry your hot older brother?”

“No.”

“Too bad. He’s pregnant and we’re eloping.”

Keith looks affronted. “Jesus Christ, ask me to braid my hair again and I’m pouring hot 

candle wax on both your limited edition Cher CDs _and_ your bird chest while you’re sleeping!”

“Don’t you bring Cher into this!”

“He’s into that second thing,” Shiro murmurs into his drink.

“I don’t have a bird’s chest!”

“ _Yes_ , you—” Keith turns to Ryan. “Ryan did you just down that water like a shot?”

“How about you focus on _you_.”

“Speaking of focusing,” Adam notes, lowering his voice, “I can barely pay attention to anything else with Colonel Sanders groping that pretty boy over there.”

When Ryan glances back to figure out what the hell Adam’s talking about, sure enough there’s an older guy whose white hair looks like it has _everything_ to do with his age, unlike Shiro’s genetic/stress-induced situation. He’s dressed in the expensive black suit of somebody who probably wouldn’t spit on you with a mouthful of extinguisher fluid if you were on fire. He has no chin, and a sonic-boom laugh Ryan has _no_ clue how he’s been able to ignore up to this point.

He’s standing next to the sitting form of a much, _much_ younger man in his early to mid-twenties, if Ryan had to guess. He has straight white teeth, thick mahogany curly hair, and these vivid blue eyes that almost tilt into green. Smooth bronze skin that’s just one hot summer away from a deeper, richer brown. 

Adam speaks up again. “Aw, Keith, don’t look so sad. You’re pretty enough for a sugar daddy too.”

“That’s not it, fuckface. He looks uncomfortable.”

Sure enough, he does. The young man’s laughing—engaging, tossing his hands around to 

speak—so on the naked skin of it, everything looks fine. But Ryan looks closer. At how his leg’s bouncing under the table, how he’s gripping his glass. How he’s laughing just a little too loud at whatever the man’s saying.

Ryan wants to go over and shoo the asshole off. Would want to no matter _who_ it was, really. But before he can even move to get up, the door to the bar is banging open.

An older blonde woman in a belted black dress with waaay too many pockets—think Jackie Kennedy with a whole bunch of shit to store on her person—click-clacks her way into the bar. Ryan, throwing away all pretense, turns around fully.

He’s nosy, what can he say?

“Bernard! Bernard, I know you’re— _there_ you are, you plastic Wal-Mart bagful of viagra! Do I have to clip your dick to your stomach? I knew I’d find you here, you piece of shit!”

Before Bernard can get a word in, the woman is turning towards the young man. He looks like if the Earth’s crust thinned out under his feet he’d rake it open with his nails till he’d made a hole big enough to dive through.

“This your whore for the week? Decided to go darker this time, huh!”

“Oh fuck _off_ lady!” The young man shoots off, standing up at that. “ _You’re_ the one married to the goddamn perv!”

The woman rears back to slap him, and… look, Ryan has no fucking clue how he manages to make it to the table that fast. Like he’d teleported, or some invisible, messy god who lives for drama picked him up by the collar and dropped him right next to the man.

But he’s there before the slap connects, gripping the young man’s arm to move him out of the way (because Ryan touching a rich white lady is _not_ a can of liability he ever wants to fuck with). The woman misses, looks up at Ryan like he’d just bent her husband over the table and fucked him in front of her.

“Your husband stopped by his table,” Ryan explains, “my friend was just being nice. He’s a nice guy.”

Ryan glances over at the young man and whoa, he’s even better looking up close. The man grits out,

“Yup, that’s me. Nice guy.”

“Well I’m sure you can be _just_ as nice to him with your clothes _on_ as you can with your clothes off.”

Ryan feels the young man tense up.

“Listen, Corpse Bride—”

Ryan gently pulls him back with the hand that never left his arm, and the man follows his direction. The woman looks at the both of them while her husband cowers like a baby backed bitch next to her. Sizes them up, then leaves in a huff. 

“Evelyn, sweetheart, wait! Please don’t slash the tires on the Lambo again!” The man’s shouting, jogging after her.

As soon as the door closes again, all the bar patrons are back to their regular conversations, as if the Honeymooners had trawled the moment behind them like a bulky fishing net and walked out the place with it. 

Ryan finally lets go of the man’s arm, a little embarrassed that he’d held on for so long.

“Oh, uh… sorry if I overstepped—”

The young man looks up at him, and a smile spreads across his face. Ryan feels a little nervous, like a schoolboy with a playground crush he’d risk a dislocated shoulder on the monkey bars for.

“You save me from limp dick and his old lady, then you apologize to me for it?”

“Well it’s just that if somebody grabbed onto _me_ like that they’d probably have a faceful of fist before I realized what was happening.”

The young man laughs. Ryan notices the round, silver ball of a piercing on his tongue. “Same here. I usually have the goddamn reflexes of an MMA fighter.”

Ryan feels himself smiling. “Big talk.”

“Big truth, babe.”

Ryan feels his face getting hot, and the man smiles wider.

“I’m Lance,” the man tells him, “And I’m buying you a drink as a thank you.”

“Ryan. And thanks but, you really don’t have to do that.”

Lance’s eyebrows shoot up in understanding. “Oh, you don’t drink? Shit, I’m sorry for assuming—”

“No, it’s just that nothing here’s strong enough for me.”

Lance breaks out into a laugh that bubbles up towards Ryan gravity-refusing, like those soapy round things you can make with nothing more than two or three palmfuls of your own breath. Ryan thinks of forks and spoons clattering against dishware in a packed house. And he’s been attracted to plenty of cute guys before but Lance is the _very_ first one to make him ever want to call his mom and sisters just to hear how they’re doing.

“Can totally relate. But I have this tequila cocktail thing that I make when I manage to Jessica Rabbit my way into free drinks. I think it’d be strong enough even for you.”

The whole thing’s going so well that _of course_ Ryan has to say something to ruin it. Walks into a china shop with a hammer and just lets loose.

“You do that a lot? Trick guys?”

That easy smile falls off Lance’s pretty face like Ryan pushed it off a cliff himself. 

“Yup, that’s it. Sometimes I’ll even have them walk right under my third-floor apartment window and drop a grand piano on their heads so they go flat-flat, like in a _Tom & Jerry _ episode. Excuse me, Ryan.”

And just like that, Lance is grabbing his coat and leaving before Ryan can figure out what the fuck to say to fix it. The shirt he wears is backless with a tie knotted at the nape of his neck, and Ryan pretends not to notice the muscles that shift and surge beneath his shoulder blades like ripples of thin, corded rope. 

When Ryan gets back to the table Keith gives him a concerned frown.

“What happened?”

Ryan sighs. “What always happens. I started talking to somebody and didn’t have the good sense to stop.”

That Monday Ryan finds out what his next big project is going to be—an astrology expo downtown, a monster affair for their small city, with around three thousand people expected to attend. Veronica had been very impressed with how he’d handled the health and wellness expo he’d headed the planning for about two weeks into work, so now here he is. And of course Ryan’s super excited—yes, unlike Keith, Shiro, and his other co-workers Hunk and Pidge keep claiming, he doesn’t _always_ look like he’s about to throw on some ballet tights and save Gotham at any moment. The nature of the event doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that he’d probably soak in a bathtub full of Nyquil before he ever let a nineteen-year-old with a septum piercing tell him he’s wishy-washy because he’s a Libra sun (okay, maybe he’s looked up his birth chart before, sue him). 

“I completely trust you with this project Ryan,” Veronica tells him at his desk between sips of whatever’s in her bright purple tumbler cup, “but there’s no way I’m hanging you out to dry like that by yourself, you’d be screwed. Everybody else is booked till the end of the month, but _Four Scope_ is letting us borrow one of their guys for a little bit. He’s technically a communications advisor but he’s done a lot of planning too.”

“Sounds good. When do I get to meet him?”

Veronica looks down at her watch, rolls her eyes. “Well he was _supposed_ to be here about fifteen minutes ago, but I expect we won’t see him until after lunch. Always fucks me over like this.” She lets out that last part in a frustrated mutter that speaks of… familiarity? 

Ryan spends the next few hours teasing out details about the venue itself, and it even cuts into some of his lunch time. Pidge is standing over him, looking like they’re about to goad him away from his desk and towards one of the restaurants across the street with an old-timey fire poker, when he hears Veronica exclaim,

“God _damit!_ There you are!”

“Sorry I’m late Ronnie. Had something to finalize.”

That voice. Is that…? No… there’s no way.

“For _three freaking hours_ , Lance? And don’t call me Ronnie in front of my employees!”

“You’re adorable.”

Yup. When Ryan finally glances up from his desk, he sees that cute guy from the bar—you know, the one he almost called a whore?—bickering with his boss at the door of her office. He’s in a regular white button down shirt now and black slacks that are… just form-fitting as _hell_ . Ryan needs to figure out what to do if the guy turns around because he’s not sure how quickly he’ll be able to look away if that ass looks even _half_ as good as he suspects it does—

Oh shit, Lance and Veronica are looking at him now. Veronica with pride, and Lance with a whole damn fruit basket full of emotions. There’s the surprise, of course. About three oranges worth of it. That _holy shit what are the fucking chances_ widening of the eyes, that twitch of recognition in the lips, a quirk in the goddamn perfect brow. Aaaand there’s a few flutters of irritation—Ryan can tell by the rapid blinking—quick, round movements that drop into each other so fast they bundle up into a single thing like a bunch of grapes. 

When Veronica starts walking back over to his desk, Lance follows her with enough hesitance for Ryan to notice it.

“Lance, this is Ryan. Ryan, this is Lance, the rat poison in my tea.”

“Oooh great, then you could finally take care of this twin business for me. I’m a one-man band, Ronnie.”

“Christ. Just behave yourself, okay?”

Pidge turns to Ryan after trying their best not to laugh at the exchange.

“Looks like you have a valid reason for standing us up today Ryan. But I _will_ be back tomorrow.”

“Yup. I’m sure we’ll be done planning a three-thousand person expo by then.”

“And no one ever _believes me_ when I tell them you’re actually a sarcastic menace.”

Ryan grins. “And they _won’t_.”

“ _‘And they won’t_ , _’_ ” Pidge mocks in a high-pitched imitation of Ryan’s voice as they walk away.

After a few more choice words to Lance, Veronica’s leaving too. Till it’s just Lance and Ryan. And Ryan’s heard plenty about separating your work life from your personal life, but this is not that.

“I’m sorry about what I said. Back at the bar.”

Lance’s eyes widen again, and he looks away like he’s embarrassed. 

“Oh, um. Don’t worry about it.” He smiles like he’s forcing himself to. “You weren’t that far off.” 

Ryan doesn’t like it, how it kind of sounds like something Lance has heard so much from other people that he’s buckled and started saying it too. Like a stadium chant you hate but you pick up anyway, because it’s loud and obnoxious and _there_. 

“Lance, _really_ , I’m—”

“Just drop it, Ryan.” 

He sounds the most serious Ryan’s heard him thus far, and his face hardens over like thick snow jammed under its own weight. Ryan wonders what Lance sees in his face because then he’s back to his smiling, joking self. Like a mattress yanking back its first shape after it loses the heavier things on top of it. 

“We can do this over food, though. I swear samosas get every single one of my synapses firing.”

Ryan smiles back, leaves it alone. Because Lance is actually funny and charming and he’s not gonna push it. 

Lance is brilliant, too. Launches into the project with the single-minded focus of those people who can probably survive on four hours of sleep a night, Surgeon General’s recommendations be damned. Hones in on their target audience like he’s got them in the inescapable pen of a camera viewfinder—gets several universities on the phone within the first week of collaborating with Ryan to advertise the _shit_ out of this expo, to make sure that the “three-thousand person” expectation is the “three thousand person” _reality_ . It also helps that their clients, three talk-show host types with a bunch of experience with alternative medicine, _love_ him. 

And Ryan’s doing his part too, okay? The logistical shit, the practical shit (everything short of picking up each attendee in his own damn car and bringing them to the venue himself) is squared away like the boxes on a power grid. And of course Ryan remembers Veronica telling him that Lance has “ _some_ planning experience.” But that’s like somebody telling you that a surgeon has “ _some_ scalpel experience.”

Point being, the man is really fucking good at that logistical and practical shit too.

Shit, he’d probably take on most of _Ryan’s_ duties if he let him. The man is a gale force wind, the swivelling funnel cloud of a tornado. And has the audacity to tell Ryan that _he_ should take care of himself? Lance is a wonder.

They meet most weekdays, but their Saturdays are quickly dedicated to tracking down vendors together. Lance drives because by the big, gorgeous ass grin on his face when he’s behind the wheel, Ryan can tell he loves it. 

Even lets him keep driving after that one little snafu. They’re leaving the caterer’s main office at the central plaza, and Lance, because he apparently hates the Dave Matthews Band like they put a hit out on his grandma, tries to change the station to avoid hearing a single second of “Crash Into Me” while backing out of their parking spot. He rolls right onto the curb next to them.

Ryan jolts forward. “Lance!”

“Oh hush, you’re still breathing!”

Then it arrives. The big day. It becomes pretty apparent about fifteen minutes into watching folks arrive and check in with expo staff that attendees will probably exceed the three-thousand they’d originally expected.

And they do.

The only reason shit doesn’t go up in flames is because Lance and Ryan had a contingency plan in place, especially after Lance noted that “dude, people go fucking ga-ga for this shit, myself included. It’s gonna be huge, trust me.”

But they’re still exhausted and washed out by the end. Ryan finds a window seat towards the back of the convention center as the crowd starts to thin out considerably, feels the exhaustion he’d lidded foaming over inside him till his bones are full and dense with it. 

Lance spots him, joins him with a sigh. He sinks against the window seat too, so close Ryan can feel his heat, and lets out an almost-moan. Ryan feels his face warming up. The bit of romantic interest he’d had in Lance from the very start has, over the past four weeks, blimped up into a crush.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Lance groans dramatically.

“So you _do_ get tired.”

Lance’s head is hanging back, pressed up against the window itself. He rolls it to look at Ryan.

“Can’t be bionic _all_ the time, Rye. Nobody else would have a crumb of self-esteem left.”

“You’re _so_ giving.”

Lance laughs. Ryan’s gotten real used to that laugh, can’t really believe he’s gonna have to start going without it after this. The event’s done (well, almost anyway). 

Lance blinks slowly at him, like he’s trying to show off _just_ how long his eyelashes are. Oh trust, Ryan already _knows_ how long they are. Sometimes he’s caught himself staring at Lance with all of the subtlety of a crate of ceramic coffee cups falling down a flight of stairs. His curly hair, mostly deep brown but a little auburn at some of the coiled ends. High, prominent cheekbones that jut out from his face to catch any light, literally _any_ light, perfectly, so he always looks camera-ready. Also, _fucking hell_ , his ass is just as nice as Ryan had suspected it is. Absolutely round, sticks out so well in those pants he chooses to wear that it’s pretty much impossible to _not_ notice it. And those lips…

But Ryan’s pretty sure he’s caught Lance staring at him too, when they were waiting outside of the door of some technician or designer who was running late. Short flares of brilliant blue that disappeared as soon as Ryan glanced back. 

“Oh you have _no_ idea how giving I can be.” Definitely doesn’t help that Ryan can literally _see_ Lance’s tongue piercing glinting up at him. 

And that? It’s like dropping a lit hand towel on a tile floor slick with gasoline, but doing your level best to close your shutters to hide the blaze from your neighbors. So nobody knows about it but you. And Ryan _definitely_ has to shut the windows on this fire, keep it to himself for now, because, um, they’re in public? And they’re working, technically? Before he can reply to Lance with much of anything, they’re interrupted. 

“Ryan!” It’s one of their clients, Romelle. A super friendly blonde whose sunshine energy is really only matched by Lance’s. 

“Oh my God, the interactive natal charts were your idea right? They’re brilliant! Could you pleeeease come talk about the design for folks, just for a little while? They’re literally begging!”

Of course Ryan has to say yes. But _goddammit_ if it doesn’t feel like he’s being pulled away from something important right now. Lance gives him an easy smile. 

“Don’t let me keep you from your fans.” 

Ryan rolls his eyes. 

Explaining the design takes a bit longer than he’d expected, but he’s not as bothered about it as he thought he’d be. Ryan usually likes to have his work speak for itself, but there’s something extremely gratifying in getting to talk about something he’d done so much research for (and for somebody whose eyes glaze over at the mere _mention_ of the zodiac, it was an arduous fucking process, let him tell you). By the time he’s done the convention center is basically empty, save for the group he’d been speaking to and the expo staff. 

He and Lance are helping everyone clean up, called to opposite ends of the venue for different duties. It’s tiring, but soon even that’s done. Soon, he and Lance are the only people left in the whole place.

Ryan is sitting on the ground against a pillar, replying to a text from his mom, when he hears Lance coming over.

“Did you get your birth chart read?” Lance asks, plopping down next to him.

“No. I don’t believe in that stuff, you know this.”

Lance rolls his eyes. “Ryan, this planet is literally the teeniest, tiniest mole on the buttcheek of space. We’re constantly being thrown around a gigantic ball of fire that shoots beams from itself to make our food grow. Also, giraffes exist! All this wild shit, and you’re telling me that the location of the stars at your birth as a determinant of your personality is where you draw the line for credibility?” 

“I… actually never thought about it like that.”

Lance laughs. “Don’t sound so surprised! I’ve got wise words of wisdom too, Sarcastic Yoda.”

“Lance, we’ve talked about this. I’d want to be Han Solo!”

“Oh quit your whining, _everybody_ would want to be Han Solo.” Lance regards him, trails his eyes from Ryan’s face and down his chest. “Though you’d probably look _great_ in a deep V-neck and a sleeveless vest.”

He stares back at Lance, face still hot, but feels a smirk growing on his face.

“I’m assuming _you_ got your birth chart read, Lance?”

“Sure as shit,” Lance tells him, stretches out his legs straight in front of him, reaches towards them like he’s limbering up for gym class.

“Nothing I didn’t already know, really. I’m a Leo sun, Leo moon, Scorpio rising. Hilarious, vindictive attention-ho.”

“I’m a Libra,” Ryan offers.

Lance looks over at him with a big grin, pulls his legs up to his chest and wraps his arms around them.

“Ooo that’s good to know.”

“We supposed to be super compatible or something?”

“God no! We’re supposed to hate each other.”

Ryan and Lance look straight at each other and burst out laughing. It feels good to laugh

with Lance. It always does. Ryan’s used to having to pull most of the weight in collaborations—work, friendships before _Buena Vista_ , relationships, you name it. It’s been quite the up-anchoring experience to find somebody so competent it’s almost scary. So competent they dig up and fold down all the time-consuming shit that seems like it’s always clamoring to get done, till all that’s left behind is free space. Space to do other stuff. More… _enjoyable_ stuff.

Neither of them is really surprised by it when Lance climbs into Ryan’s lap. 

Lance kisses like it’s his favorite thing to do. Frames Ryan’s face with warm hands while Ryan takes hold of his slim waist, meets Ryan for a sweet kiss at first—just a few touches of their lips against each other while deep brown stares up into blue in the interims. But then Lance urges him into something quicker—something wet and smacking—with plump, insistent lips until Ryan feels bold enough to tease at the seam of Lance’s mouth with his tongue. Bold enough to dive into that wet heat to just _devour_. Ryan could already feel himself getting hard when the kiss had first begun, and when Lance moans into his mouth he’s completely there. When Lance shifts so he’s more firmly in Ryan’s lap, Ryan feels the delectable curve of that dreamy ass against his erection. He groans into the kiss, and Lance echoes it with a moan of his own.

Grinds down on Ryan’s bulge so Ryan slips into the slot between his cheeks in those absurdly tight pants. Ryan shifts his hands to Lance’s hips to help, catches his rhythm and starts to roll up into each and every one of Lance’s downward grinds. It’s like they’re dancing, something absolutely filthy, something they’d probably get chased out of any club for doing where people could see. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Lance hisses the next time he pulls away. Grips Ryan’s shoulders like he needs them for balance, tucks his face into Ryan’s neck while they move against each other, rough, almost desperate. Ryan gets a nose full of Lance’s vanilla shampoo. Feels Lance’s panting breaths against his skin.

“That good, baby?” Ryan teases, stares down the long line of Lance’s back to the beginning curve of his lovely ass.

“ _Yess…_ ”

Ryan finally grabs the ass he’s been staring at for weeks and _fuck_ , what a feeling under his palms. So round, so full, and even through the fabric of the pants he can feel the give. He gives the plump cheeks an experimental squeeze.

“ _Fuck_ yess… w-wanted your hands on me for so long…”

Maybe that’s what does it. That reminder that they’ve known each other for almost a month, and in that length of time Ryan’s built and built and _built_ up to wanting Lance this much. Under his hands like this, of course, erections straining against their dress slacks while they dry-hump like horny teenagers between SAT test prep and band practice. 

But he’s _wanted_ him. Wanted to get to know him even more, wanted more of the sarcasm, the jokes, the goofiness. More of him.

So Ryan grips Lance’s hips to still his movements, and Lance pulls away to look down at 

Him, slick red lips in an adorable pout. Curls falling into his face. Still panting.

“W… why’d you stop?” Lance almost immediately shifts into something darker. “Oh, I’m- _shit_ , I’m sorry. This was a mistake, you’re right—” Lance moves to go, to get up, but Ryan holds him fast.

“Lance. That’s not it. I fucking loved that. Your mouth…” Ryan reaches up to trace

Lance’s bottom lip with a thumb. Gets so distracted again that he slips the thumb into Lance’s mouth, and the young man sucks it eagerly. Gets to literally _watch_ Lance’s pupils dilate as he closes his lips around the digit, looks at Ryan with low-lidded eyes as if to say _yeah, I’m really fucking good at this_.

Ryan pulls his thumb free, shifts so that Lance isn’t pressing quite so, um, _firmly_ on his still-hard dick. He _needs_ to get this out.

“I want to take you out on a date.” And Lance had already been lightly flushed from their activity but now he blushes darker. Absolutely precious. “A real one. Because you’re cute and funny and you’re so goddamn responsible it’s almost horrifying.” Lance snorts at that, and Ryan grins as Lance immediately throws his hands over his own mouth in embarrassment. 

“So can I, Lance? Can I take you out on a date?”

Lance smiles at him, brighter than the sun.

“That depends. Can we come back here to dry-hump after? There’s just something about this goddamn pillar.”

Ryan hates that he laughs. “Yes. Let’s go with _yes_.”

See the thing a lot of people don’t know about Ryan is that he’s *super-secret whisper* **_actually a romantic_ ** . He’s always been the relationship guy among all his friends, the one who always seemed to have somebody to go home to, to answer to, to dote on and have them dote on him. He really, really likes having people around. But the thing is, Ryan’s pretty sure that all of his past relationships would have probably been better off as platonic friendships. They’d been people he liked, people he’d liked getting close to, people he liked fucking. But there was never much romantic feeling, never anybody that he could look at and think, _wow, if given half the chance and all the time in the world I don’t know if I’d spend it talking to you, roasting you, or fucking you until you couldn’t move_.

Thirty minutes into his date with Lance at _Bianchi’s_ , he almost chokes on his water when he realizes that Lance is somebody he thinks that about.

“Never had somebody die on me on a date before. That’s _one_ way to make sure I never forget about you.”

Ryan fakes offense. “You’re not even gonna check to see if I’m okay?”

Lance gestures at him with a garlic breadstick. “You’re clearly fine. Even alert enough to fish for sympathy.”

“I shouldn’t have to fish for it. You’re telling me that if I fell out on you, you’d just continue dinner without me?”

“It’s what Ryan would’ve wanted.”

“Still here, Lance.”

Lance brings the back of his hand to his forehead dramatically, closes his eyes and makes his lips tremble like he’s on the verge of tears.

“Sometimes, I _swear_ it’s like I can still hear his voice.”

Dinner proceeds pretty much like this. They fuck with each other, laugh, joke. But what keeps them at _Bianchi’s_ nearly till it’s closed, till the restaurant’s almost empty, long after whatever’s left of their entrees has gone cold and untouched, is deeper talk.

Lance asks, “So what made you want to do the event planning thing?”

Ryan shrugs. “I liked it. But I ran from it for a while. I found it so fun that I thought there was no way I’d be able to make a career out of it.”

Lance laughs into his wine glass. Ryan turns the question back to him.

“And you? Why is communications the job you decided to gift your charm too?”

“Fuck that sarcasm, Ryan. I’m charming!”

“I said that!”

Lance huffs and rolls his eyes, but smiles like he can’t help it.

“I started talking when I was like one and a half and couldn’t stop. I would talk to anything, Ryan! I used to have interviews with my Care Bears when I was little. And then I was like ‘can I get a job that will literally pay me to do this? I want _that_ please.’ Also after Ronnie got that managing job at _Vista_ I _knew_ I had to upstage her - you ever tried upstaging a prodigy? But seriously, it’s nice having my mom be ridiculously proud of her twins.” Lance finishes the little spiel with a small, adorable smile, like he’s reminiscing.

Ryan’s heart is pretty full just listening to it, honestly. But then he registers something that he’s not sure how he’s missed for so long.

“Wait… Veronica’s your sister?”

Lance giggles so hard he almost drops the rest of his wine.

“Ryan, are you _kidding_? We have the same nose.”

Once they’ve left the restaurant, It takes Ryan about thirty seconds of having a _very_ handsy Lance pull at his shirt and kiss at his neck in the parking lot as he attempts to get his car unlocked to remember _just_ how many glasses of wine Lance had at dinner. He does manage to get Lance in the passenger’s seat, after relenting and giving him a single forehead kiss that seems to both placate _and_ frustrate him.

When Ryan gets to Lance’s apartment, he manages to pop Lance’s keys out his pocket with the man clinging to his side, grinding against him as he lets out these _sweet_ mewls. It is a test of _will_ , getting that door open and Lance in bed with a glass of water on his bedside table, then just… just _leaving_.

That night when Ryan jerks off in bed, it feels like he’s barely started stroking himself before he’s spilling into his hand.

No, no, the _first_ time that Ryan fucks Lance is two days later. It’s a government holiday (one of those ones that’s really just the government yanking itself off to its own supposed generosity), and Ryan’s just finished the oil piece he’s been working on on-and-off for the past three months. He’s already feeling good, sitting back to catch up on _The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills_ , when he gets a call from Lance.

“Hey Rye.” And Ryan _already_ feels heat dribbling down into his stomach because Lance’s voice is low, just a little raspy, and he sounds out of breath.

“Hey Lance,” Ryan replies carefully. “What’s up?”

“Mmm nothin’ muuuuch. Just realized you forgot your charger here from the last time you stopped by.”

Ryan looks over at the wall next to his potted trailing plants, where his charger is still plugged into the wall socket where he’d left it.

“Am I just coming over to grab the charger?”

“Was hoping you could pin me down and fuck me… ya know, as long as you’re here.”

“There we go.”

Ryan has about six angry drivers threaten to beat his ass because he cuts them off so brutally on his way to Lance’s place. All six could connect with each other and team up to jump him, for all he cares. Because he _needs_ to figure out what exactly Lance has been doing that’s got him all out of breath like that. 

Ryan only knocks a couple of times before the door is opening and oh... oh fuck. 

Lance opens it in gray compression shorts that cling to shimmering brown thighs. They make no secret of how hard Lance is - Ryan can clearly see the rigid form of his straining dick through the elastic. He’s completely shirtless too, toned stomach just a little dewy, bronzed with sweat. He’s barefoot, in a sheer white robe that brushes the floor. 

And that face. _Always_ that pretty fucking face. Those pouty red lips Ryan will never get tired of kissing, nibbling. Those big blue eyes. Lance looks right at Ryan and licks his lips. Ryan gets another flash of that tongue piercing and of course he’s seen it a whole lot by now, but every single time feels brand new. 

Ryan walks in, has an arm around Lance’s waist before he’s even gotten the door fully shut. 

He’s kissing him long, deep, parts Lance’s lips to delve into a mouth that tastes like toothpaste and coffee. Sure their very first kiss was heated as hell, but Ryan has since learned that Lance turns all kinds of rock-candy-under-the-sun gooey under these slow, wet kisses. And that’s exactly what happens now. 

Lance’s kitchen is right next to his front door, so Ryan backs him up into his counter, slides a hand into Lance’s curls and another to his hip to hold him steady as he licks into his mouth with slow, deliberate strokes. Drags a careful, questing tongue along the roof of that lovely mouth, gets to feel that piercing as Lance meets him in a more than eager tangle of tongues. 

Lance pulls back, looks up at Ryan with kiss-swollen lips and bleary morning sky eyes. 

“Got a surprise for you,” he almost sing-songs.

Ryan rubs up against him in a firm grind, sends them both moaning. 

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm,” Lance nods, still playing coy. “Back up, Casanova.” 

Ryan gives him some space, and Lance takes off his robe to throw over the back of the nearby couch. Turns around to bend over the counter and _fuck_. 

Sure Ryan’s had the privilege of touching Lance’s butt before, holding it, _squeezing_ it. But he’s still struck by just how _fat_ it is. 

The shorts are tight against Lance’s lightly muscled thighs, fabric stretched almost taut by full, round cheeks. The black band clutches at his trim waist, and there’s an aquamarine-blue rose, about as big as Ryan’s fist, etched into the skin of his lower-back. It’s a beautiful piece, really, definitely something Ryan would love to take the time to appreciate when he’s not harder than granite. Lance peers at Ryan over his shoulder with the most amused little smirk. 

“You haven’t seen _anything_ yet, babe.”

Lance hooks fingers into his waistband and starts to pull down his shorts. Ryan literally has to bring a hand to his mouth in stunned, horny shock at how the fabric catches on the cheeks, bites into them so that the top half of that ample ass swells over the band.

And none of that is even the best part. 

No, the _best_ part is when Lance has the shorts completely over the curve of his delectable ass (doesn’t even take them off completely, mind you; just lets them tangle around his thighs like he can’t be bothered to take them off all the way) and Ryan sees the end of a hot pink butt plug nestled between his cheeks. 

Lance reaches his hand back to grip a cheek none too gently, grips the base of the plug with his other hand and starts to ease it out of himself. Pulls it out slowly while Ryan gets harder in his jeans. Moans sweetly as he lets Ryan see exactly how the widest part of the plug stretches his slick rim. He pauses with the tip of the plug just barely touching his little hole, and Ryan gets the barest glimpse of his gape. Then, holding eye contact with a very stressed Ryan, he pushes it back into himself, moans louder as he does it. 

“ _Surprise_ ,” he breathes weakly. 

Ryan wastes no time.

First order of business - he takes a jiggly cheek in hand, kneads it like he might never get the chance to again. 

Then he takes hold of the base of the buried plug, and eases it out of the pretty thing bent over for him. 

“This what you were doing before you called me, pretty baby?” Ryan murmurs in a voice waaayy too low to be his own. 

Ryan doesn’t even give him the chance to answer before he’s pressing the plug back in, watching that sweet, obedient little hole swallow it right up again. 

“ _Mm_ \- fuck - _Mmhmm_...”

“Didn’t need to lie to me baby...” Ryan tells him as he pulls the plug out a little faster, drives it back in a little quicker so Lance whines.

“Always gonna jump at the chance to stretch out this ass..”

“ _Fuck_ , y-you’re nasty.”

Ryan chuckles. “Just wait for it.”

He leans over Lance to catch his lips in another kiss because he can’t help himself. 

Ryan manages to let Lance out of his sight long enough for him to go grab some lube and a condom as he pulls off his shorts, nearly trips over his own feet in an exhibition so wholly _Lance_ that Ryan has to laugh. 

“That’s right, get that ass back here,” Ryan tells him as Lance bends over the counter once more.”

“Gimme those hands, baby,” Ryan directs him, watches with a pleased little smile as Lance arranges his arms forearm to forearm over his back. 

“So you _can_ be sweet for me, huh?” 

“I only listen under promise of dick.”

Ryan laughs as he rolls on the condom, adds some more lube to it.

“Does that mean you’re gonna stop being a little shit from now on?”

Lance looks at him with a face full of laughter. 

“That depends. How good is your dick?”

Pretty fucking good, if Lance’s sharp gasp, then moan, as Ryan sinks into him in one smooth thrust is anything to go by.

From his very first thrust in, Ryan’s gone off how Lance’s tight little hole works him like that’s it’s _job_. Ryan’s never been small but Lance takes him to the hilt, balls-deep, like it’s the easiest thing on earth. No, Ryan amends as he listens to Lance’s moaning, like it’s a gift.

Ryan folds over him, balls deep inside that hot, snug little hole, to place a kiss on top of his head. 

“M-might have to revise like - _nnghshit_ \- 89% of my personality…

“Hm? Why’s that?” Ryan urges, amused to no end. 

“‘Cause... y-your dick’s good...”

“Mmm not quite sure I caught that. Let’s try that again baby.”

Ryan straightens up so he can watch Lance’s greedy, swollen rim cling to the length of him as he pulls out. _Fuck_ that’s good. Watches Lance’s little hole open right up for him as he drives back in. _Fuck_ that’s better. 

He gives Lance a light tap on a jiggly cheek, makes him yelp a bit.

“Thought I asked you to repeat yourself baby?” 

“ ‘S good, your dick’s - _hah_ \- good!” 

Ryan tries to go slow for a little longer. He really does. But after a few languid thrusts that send Lance to begging he’s picking up the pace, gripping Lance’s forearms as he slams into his tight ass. 

“ _Fuck_... such a tight, pretty little thing aren’t you?” Ryan grunts.

“ _H-harder Rye_ ... _faster_ , I want it...”

“Yeah? How’s it feel baby?” 

“G-good.”

Ryan thrusts into Lance sharply, sweat running down the sides of his face. He aims for Lance’s sweet spot, knows he’s hit it when the young man whines high. 

“ _There! Yes! Th-there!_ ”

“You like it, baby?” 

“Y-Yeah... _yes, nnnh, yes I like it_...”

Ryan lets go Lance’s arms, pulls out till only the tip of his dick rests against that sensational little hole. Fuck, there’s probably not gonna be another waking moment where he doesn’t want to be inside Lance. 

What a great fucking problem to have. 

“Show me how much, baby.” 

Lance looks back at him with teary eyes, overwhelmed and panting. 

“W-what?”

“You heard me Lance. Bounce that fat ass on my dick baby.” 

“ _Fucking hell_ ,” Lance groans. 

But he’s bracing his hands on the countertop to do just that, back in a deep, sinuous arch that puts the blue rose above his ass on even starker display. 

He moves with dirty finesse, uses his leverage to bounce back onto Ryan’s cock, cheeks trembling all the while as he takes Ryan inside his hot little hole over and over again. Moans all the while, mewls and babbles. Some of it’s even in Spanish. 

Ryan’s getting close, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still want to tease Lance until he’s a sobbing mess. 

“Thank me for it,” Ryan tells him, licks his lips at how his dick’s just vanishing between the thick cheeks of Lance’s incredible ass. 

“ _Hhhnh_ , th-thank you Ryan.” 

Ryan takes some pity on him, puts a hand on his back to press him into the counter once more. Lets out a _fucking hell_ when Lance, with zero prompting whatsoever, lifts a leg onto the surface so he’s spread open like a fucking buffet. 

Ryan fucks into him a rough, a little mean, and Lance... Lance sings for him, these overwhelmed but oh-so-satisfied _ah ah uhn’s_ , these loud moans that ping against the stainless steel in his kitchen, the shameless cries for _more, yyes, like that baby, m- make me feel it, fuuhuck, p-please._

But when Ryan wraps a hand around Lance’s dripping dick, Lance goes nearly silent with the dual sensations of a thick cock up his ass and a sturdy, unrelenting hand on his length. 

“You’re gonna come for me, okay baby?” Ryan grunts, so damn close to finishing. “Gonna be a _good fucking boy_ and come for me. Come on baby, show me how good I fuck this ass...” 

With a high whine, Lance is coming against the short wall of the counter, his hot spend trickling over Ryan’s fingers. Ryan fucks him through his orgasm with a few more erratic thrusts that have him cumming into the condom with a long groan.

Ryan’s usually a little more alert post-orgasm, but right now it feels like he might’ve shot a little bit of his soul into that condom. He barely manages to catch himself with his hands on the counter, on either side of Lance, before he crushes him. Even then his arms feel like wet baguettes. They both groan weakly when Ryan pulls out for the final time. 

Lance swallows, pants, completely boneless under him.

“Can’t believe you couldn’t wait until we got to my room. Could’ve fucked me on the bed instead, made an honest woman out of me.”

Ryan’s arms finally give out with the helpless chuckle that drums up his throat. He presses his face into Lance’s hair, so his voice is a bit muffled when he shoots back,

“Thought you were gonna stop being a little shit?”

“What we’re both gonna learn quickly, Rye, is that I _cannot_ be held liable for anything I say with your dick inside me.”

Ryan preens a bit. “That good, huh?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Ryan can’t remember ever having this constant, day-in, day-out compulsion to fuck and get fucked by anybody before. It darts into his mouth, clanks and claws its way up the walls in his stomach, splits over and over again and plants its offshoots there like metal scales—a _need_.

Till it becomes that almost every time he picks Lance up from his office across town for their lunch dates, somebody strokes somebody else’s thigh and then they’re parked behind a Krogers, Lance folded over the center console with Ryan’s dick down his throat. Bobbing up to the tip so he can drag the ball of his piercing along the underside of Ryan’s glans. Blinking up at him with pretty, long-lashed eyes while he drools around his cock, that hot, clenching throat urging Ryan to a jerky and curse-filled finish. Lance starts calling himself the Golden Throat, and Ryan can’t even object to it because it’s fucking accurate.

They have movie nights that start off adorably, with Lance snuggled into Ryan’s side or Ryan with his head in Lance’s lap while some stupid action movie ( _The Expendables_ or _Fast & the Furious _ or something along that vein; Lance loves the damn things and Ryan _knows_ he’s gone for this boy because that’s not even the dealbreaker it should be). But they always, _always_ end with Lance in his lap, riding Ryan to the edge of his sanity while Lance’s mouth goes slack because the only arena he’s terrible at multitasking in is _this_ oddly specific, absolutely _dirty_ one—when he’s jouncing on top of Ryan, tight ass full of cock, and he can barely concentrate on anything else other than getting that thick length inside him. It falls to Ryan to pick up the filthy, tongue-filled kissing.

On their rare free Satur _days_ -turned nights where Lance spends the whole day at Ryan’s place, it’s not uncommon for Ryan to walk into his bedroom to grab his laptop, find Lance reading a book on top of his sheets, and be coaxed into bed, then onto his back so Lance can fuck into him with an honestly _impeccable_ sense of rhythm.

One super fun time, when they were at Lance’s place and Ryan was doing work at the kitchen island while Lance cooked at the stove, adorably excited over finding out that Trini chicken pelau is actually pretty similar to Cuban black beans and rice. But he’s shimmying around in these _tight_ sleep shorts, bending over the pot to taste and Ryan… Ryan’s just _weak_ for that ass, all right? So he sidles up behind Lance, gently removes the cooking spoon from his hand. Steers him to the island and bends him over it in _quite_ the re-creation of their first fuck on the counter. Ryan kneels down, spreads those lovely cheeks apart, and licks into him ravenous, with a slick, unforgiving tongue. Egged on by the sexy ass moans, the trembling, the way Lance’s voice catches on every full word he tries to get out. So that even _Rye_ because _R-nnnghh_. Ryan’s grip almost bruising on those plump cheeks, holds Lance steady and immobilized while he eats his fill of that pretty little hole. 

In short, it’s the best sex Ryan’s ever had. Full stop. 

But about the seventh time Ryan attempts to pick Lance up for a nighttime date, and Lance opens the door and immediately starts pulling him towards the bedroom, Ryan grips his biceps to still him, pauses the urgent kissing. Fucking _hell_ , what a feat. 

“Babe, wait. Can we _actually_ try to make it out the door this time?”

Lance smirks at him, coy. Runs a hand down Ryan’s chest and Ryan _shivers_ because, uh, he’s _weak_. Like he said!

“We can _try_.”

Ryan takes hold of Lance’s wrist to stop his hand. Looks into his face so long that Lance’s smirk crumbles into a self-conscious little frown.

“Is everything okay?” Ryan asks.

“Well, no. See I’m trying to take my hot, hot boyfriend to my room but he’d rather therapize me in the hallway than be balls-deep inside me in my bed.”

Ryan’s eyes fall closed as even the mere _mention_ of fucking Lance tips a wheelbarrow full of remembered sensations, whines, and moans into him. Lance takes that chance to start untucking Ryan’s shirt, and it takes a few quiet _woo-sahs_ for Ryan to collect himself enough to capture Lance’s seeking hand again.

“I won’t push this Lance, you _know_ I won’t. But it seems like everytime I try to go out on a date with you I wind up with my pants down and my dick out with no intention of going _anywhere at all_ for the hours that follow.”

“Aww, I have skills.”

Ryan grips his wrist a little tighter, keeps looking him in the eye.

“Come on Lance. The truth, if you’re comfortable. _Please_.”

Lance purses his lips so they look much thinner than they actually are. For a moment, it looks like he’s going to change the subject again. His eyebrows are knitted together, like he’s verging on angry. But when he speaks again, he sounds calm. Resigned. 

Ryan lets go of him, and he walks over to the sofa and sits down. Pats the cushion next to him as a signal to Ryan, and Ryan plops down beside him.

“You know back at the bar? When you saved me from going to jail for fighting Great Value Meryl Streep?”

Ryan nods.

“I wasn’t fucking her crusty husband—that was the truth—but I _was_ there to meet somebody older. Like, much older. A sugar daddy, I guess? But I hate using that term because it always makes me think of one of those old 70s pimps with the feather in their hat. But I left the bar before he got there. He was from out of town, was driving down to meet me, actually. But, like I said, I left the bar before he got there because you called me a hussie.” Ryan frowns, goes to apologize again, but Lance raises a finger to his lips, stops him. “I like this part, Ryan. I like the kissing and the grinding and the fucking, but… I like all that other shit with you too. It’s the first time I’ve ever met somebody almost as funny as me.” Ryan laughs, and Lance looks up, face soft. “I guess I’m just trying to figure out how this—the dating thing—fits into the impression I had about myself. I want to make it work _so bad_ because it’s you, Rye. I just… I need a little time. Is that okay? I want you around but I just need a little time.”

Ryan smiles down at him, kisses his nose.

“‘S more than okay, Lance.” Kisses his forehead. “More than.”

They start off slow. Dates in each of their apartments that _don’t_ —surprise of all surprises—immediately turn into sex (though they often end like that. Ooooh, and _you’re_ perfect??) They leave more room for that easy friendship they’d had while they’d been working on the astrology project together. And it actually makes the sex _more_ intense. Like, Ryan remembers staring down at Lance under him post-orgasm, visible shock on both their faces when Ryan had cum so hard he’d lost his hearing for a little while and Lance had cum so hard he’d caught a leg cramp.

“Okay so _when_ were you going to tell me you know how to twist locs?”

Ryan is sitting on the floor facing his TV, tucked between Lance’s thighs with Lance situated on the sofa. He can feel the gentle tug and pull of Lance capturing little fly-away hairs, turning a loc so it lays tight and neat.

“You never asked! I used to do this for my cousins all the time.”

“Just glad I can get this done for free now.”

“Uhhh who says I’m gonna do this for free? You’re cute and all but I can’t pay my bills in ‘Ryan’s pouty faces.’”

“I do _not_ pout.”

“Oh _please_.”

“Why do I put up with this disrespect?”

“‘Cause I’m tighter than Pentagon security and I can do hair. Now shut-up and let me finish, Pouty Boy.”

It takes hours for them to finish but Ryan doesn’t mind it. Catches himself landing sweet kisses to Lance’s knee while Lance giggles above him, swats him with the comb for moving too much.

“Keith, can you say a little louder for the folks in the back how you thought people got their tongues pierced?” Lance can barely hold in his laughter long enough to get the question out.

They all agreed on Honey Grille for the weekly outing tonight. Pidge kept telling them all about how the fish tacos here had “made them ascend to a higher mortal plane—I think I fucked a hot space witch,” so it was the natural choice.

It’d been a little tricky finding a booth big enough for the seven of them—Lance, Ryan, Keith, Shiro, Adam, Pidge, and Veronica—but they’d managed.

Keith looks at Lance in betrayal. “You have _no_ honor.”

Pidge regards him with a shit-eating, mischievous look.

“Wait, how do you think they do it, Keith?”

Keith closes his eyes, and says in a rush, “I thought you could get it done with a staple gun, like the ones they use to bolt down cable wires.”

Veronica almost spits out her water. Lance tuts and shakes his head at her, and she flips him off, noting that, 

“Not everybody can be a swallower Lance.”

Ryan sips his drink, feeling a lot like that uncomfortable fox sitting on the edge of the bed in that one meme.

Lance gasps. “Well if I’m such a swallower then give me the rest of your chicken crispers, you’re _clearly_ not treating them the way they deserve.”

“Touch my shit and lose your hand, Lance. Don’t make Ryan suffer like that.”

“Aaah, so you acknowledge my skill _yet again_.”

Ryan groans. “ _Please_ leave me out of this.”

Pidge pipes up. “Um, are we just gonna _ignore_ the fact that Keith thinks piercing parlors use staple guns from Lowe’s?”

“I never said they were from Lowe’s!”

Adam joins in. “Oh come _on_ guys. There’s plenty of other shit to get on Keith’s case for! Like the fact that he won’t let anybody touch that gorgeous main.”

“What is _up_ with you and hair?”

Shiro murmurs into his cup of strawberry lemonade, “it’s a thing for him.”

For a moment, the whole table pauses. Everybody heard him, and yet Shiro’s faking it like he hadn’t said a word. Then everybody’s erupting into laughter at Adam’s expense.

Lance leans into Ryan’s side, wipes the tears of laughter from his eyes and says low enough for just the two of them,

“Good thing they don’t know I thought ‘pet play’ was barking at somebody’s dick.”

Pidge whips their head towards Lance and Ryan like a goddamn owl.

“You _what_?”


End file.
